


Desolation

by BrytteMystere



Series: The Fae!Claire AU [1]
Category: Outlander (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fae!Claire Beauchamp, Of the Unseelie Winter affiliation if you may, This is what comes when I run out of my antidepressant meds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:47:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21929203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrytteMystere/pseuds/BrytteMystere
Summary: Claire Beauchamp has always lived on a rather thin balance. But war has broken her in ways she still hasn't fully understood.
Relationships: Claire Beauchamp/Frank Randall, Claire Beauchamp/Jamie Fraser (if you squint)
Series: The Fae!Claire AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1646914
Comments: 8
Kudos: 35





	Desolation

**Author's Note:**

> I must preface this by saying that I wrote this in the middle of a depressive episode after crying to myself for like 3 hours without even understanding why.
> 
> Thus, this was written more in a trance than in any coherence, though it was betaed by the marvellous made_of_lions_and_wolves333. I was basically transcribing the movie going on in my head, but just know that this Claire is the product of a Fae/Human union.
> 
> Also: I've wanted to write for Outlander for a while, but didn't expect _this_ would be my first pairing for it

She was alone.

Surrounded by flesh, both freshly shed and mostly rotten, yes. But alone.

Nothing alive but her in miles, the ashes of the dead so thick in the air she felt unable to breathe properly.

It was so loud, in that stillness, the very sound of her heart. Her every stuttering breath. The very fluttering of her eyelashes.

Claire Randall was alone in a mountain of corpses, and nothing could ever save her from it.

* * *

By the time her mind regained a measure of coherence, Frank's voice had nearly gone raw.

His arms were tight around her waist, his body a warm, steady rock against hers. She could feel his heartbeat, resonating through her very soul and lending her a safe haven to return to, a sturdy rope to grasp that would help her abandon the desolate corpse land she kept being dragged to.

He was sobbing, she realized suddenly, her right shoulder wet with his tears and his fingers tangled in her hair. As if she was about to vanish, into dust, or ashes, were he to let go even slightly.

"Please," he begged, voice low and barely there. "Claire, please, _come back_."

She blinked, confused, so empty and yet so full of emotions they all cancelled each other and left her unable to react.

_Come back? From where?_

From death. From war.

Closing her eyes, still trapped in a limbo of no expression, she let herself be swayed by his desperate pleas, the way his body curled up against hers, warm and inviting and _there_.

She did this for a while, hours or seconds, it mattered not. But the emptiness gnawed at her, and his warmth was too inviting.

Her hands moved at last, slow and measured, over his thighs and towards his back, before drifting to his front and trying to unbutton his shirt.

It was not to be, however, for he was trembling, and holding her in such desperate earness there was no space at all for her to maneuver.

So her hands drifted lower again, towards his tights framing her own, up towards the very laces of his pants. She undid them easily enough, face still blank as the hollowness ate her up, and reached inside.

He was soft, and remained so for a while, loud gasps shaking his frame as he cried on her shoulder and clung to her, too mired in misery for excitement.

But she wanted him, she _needed_ him, and so despite his own wishes his flesh eventually complied, hardening just enough to serve her purpose.

Claire was and wasn't. Like the hollowed vessel of a starving beast, her flesh moved without much impout from her, as she climbed his thighs and drew him in.

Her husband, weak mortal flesh that he was, gave a ragged cry and kept begging her.

_"Claire, Claire, please, come back, come back…"_

She had no real time to mind him. The beast within was starving and there he was, warm and whole, and _desperate._ What would he not do, for her? What would he not give?

Part of her hated it all, of course. Taking so much from him without giving anything back. Still, Frank Randall was a voluntary sacrifice, forever trying to piece back together what no longer could be made whole.

So she took, and took, and took, as his tears wet her nightgown, her skin, her hair, her lips. As his unwilling flesh fought the desire she'd forced on it, even as his tender heart, his very soul, was bared open.

He had no defenses from her.

It was truly intoxicating, that feeling. The absolute width of his love, the broken knowledge that the woman he'd so loved was not truly _there_ anymore. How much he kept letting her devour, in his senseless hope of melding her back together.

She felt him sudder, his lifeless seed the most damning proof of his surrender. And it was too soon. She remained cold, empty, so hollow the longing teared her up, as her nails teared his flesh.

He was unable to move, cooling like the tears still drifting from his eyes, and she was still starving, so her lips and nails kept devouring as much as she could.

His love, his desperation, thick in his blood, in the sweat on his skin.

By the time she realized any more would kill him, her poor husband was a mess of wrecked flesh, bleeding into their sheets from every pathway her nails had carved. Eyes vacant, staring unfocused at the ceiling as those damnable tears of his kept falling, over his cheekbones and ears.

The beast within wanted to finish, to lick his tears and hollow him up at last, but what remained of the one who'd loved him refrained. Backed away, leaving him there, cooling and half-dead already.

She would heal him later, of course. Licking his blood and melding his flesh, not a trace to be found anywhere by the time the sun rose.

But right then, she left him for the window, pressing her now warm flesh against the crystal, peering at the mirage of what could be.

She was Claire Elizabeth Beauchamp Randall, on a second honeymoon at Scotland. And directly at the focus of her field of vision, the one who would be hers, who had been hers and whose soul she would feast on for all eternity, looked up at her from the darkened street.

**Author's Note:**

> Fae!Claire _is_ killing Frank. And yes, the figure looking up at her window was Ghost Jamie.


End file.
